


Will Call

by georgina_bulsara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Music venue box office, M/M, Texting, author is horny for ticket sales, jk but i do really miss going to shows, music industry written by total outsider, singing queen songs very loudly, the case of the mysterious Queen tickets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgina_bulsara/pseuds/georgina_bulsara
Summary: Bored at his job in the Harmonies From Heaven box office, Aziraphale finds a distraction in the form of a peculiar customer who, for some reason, can't stop purchasing tickets to Queen tribute shows.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 178
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my entry for the Good Omens AU Fest, which I've been looking forward to for so long. Big thanks to @bisasterdi for organising it, and be sure to check out all the amazing fics going up in the collection! My prompt was Angry customer/employee
> 
> Thank you to @Anti_kate for beta'ing this first chapter!
> 
> Note: the title of this fic is in reference to will call tickets, which you pick up at the box office before a show (having ordered them ahead of time). Apparently this terminology is not used in all English-speaking countries, so I'm just noting it here in case you're unfamiliar!

On a frigid Wednesday night, when no one in their right mind should be going to a live concert, Aziraphale was cramped into a dimly lit box office booth. He perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, between a space heater and a bulky ticket printer that did its job only marginally well. He had a good three hours left until his shift was over, and he intended to spend as much of it as possible reading his book. 

Harmonies From Heaven was a towering building in Soho that back in its heyday had been an old-fashioned cinema. Now it was home to a modestly-sized concert venue, with a vast floor that slanted up from the proscenium stage. On most nights of the week, the music brought in patrons who weren’t there so much for the music itself, but for the bar located on the upper auditorium level. The bands were booked more to provide background music for a night of drinking, although there were a handful of devoted music-lovers at every concert. 

Aziraphale didn’t even know what band was playing tonight. He knew the name, of course, and that they were advertised as “progressive alt-punk,” whatever that meant, but he never bothered learning more than the bare minimum when we worked a shift.

He’d found this job through his family—his older cousin Gabriel was a promoter at the venue, and Aziraphale had been desperate for a low-stress part-time job that could help him out with rent. His savings account was dismally low, and all he had to show for his many years of hard work writing his magnum opus was a stack of rejections from every publisher in the UK. 

At least people-watching was good, from his vantage point. The box office window was tucked in a small alcove off a busy street, where people often sheltered themselves from the rain or argued about where to go for dinner. The tint of the window made it difficult to see if someone was sitting in the box office, which made Aziraphale’s illicit eavesdropping even easier… 

Tonight, he watched the slow trickle of patrons filter into the venue—it clearly wasn’t going to be a full house. That wasn’t his fault though, so there was no way he could be punished for low ticket sales. That job belonged to the promoters…. or the marketing department. Or something. Aziraphale just sold the tickets and answered people’s inane questions to the best of his ability. If it was anything more complicated than ‘What time will the headliner go on?’, Aziraphale usually summoned the general manager and went back to minding his own business. He never prolonged conversations with customers or went into the venue once his shift ended. He went straight home and put on his favourite Beethoven symphony to wind down, usually accompanied by a mug of cocoa and one of his many books. 

In his peripheral vision, Aziraphale saw a dark figure approaching. He waited to look up from his book until he was absolutely sure they required his attention. This person was particularly impatient because they knocked a knuckle against the glass. Aziraphale snapped his head up, already prepared to be particularly cold and aloof. If Uriel were there, he’d have made multiple snarky comments already about the audacity of some people. Instead, he pushed open the window. 

The man slid a ticket onto the counter, thin, knobbly fingers pushing it through the window opening. “Yeah, I bought my ticket for the concert tonight a while back, but it looks like I was given the wrong one?”

Aziraphale took the man’s ticket. It was for a Queen tribute concert happening next month. The venue’s line-up included a lot of tribute concerts—they always attracted the biggest crowds (and the biggest drinkers), much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. The Grateful Dead shows were always the worst. 

The man looked like the type of person who would fit in at any number of hip concerts. He had an aura of mystery and intrigue that made him look cool, even though he was just a middle-aged man, like Aziraphale. 

“Could I see your ID? Then I’ll be able to look through all your orders.” 

“Yep,” said the man, with extra pop on the p. It was a moment before he was able to pry the card from his back pocket—all Aziraphale could see was his struggle from the hips up, wriggling around as if he was in combat with a very small fly. 

Finally, his long fingers slid his bent and slightly faded licence through the slot. Aziraphale had to squint and hold it close to his face to make out the name to type into his computer—Anthony J Crowley. 

The ID picture was not doing the man any favours face-wise. Aziraphale supposed most ID pictures were unfair depictions, but it was a right shame that this Crowley had been completely screwed over by the mug-shot style photograph. None of his striking features were really visible on the ID, as far as Aziraphale was concerned. Not the reckless glint in his eye, nor the silkiness of his hair as it fell about his neck. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale raised his voice to be heard through the slot once the customer history loaded on his screen. “It appears you were charged for the Queen tribute concert, in one month’s time.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said with exaggerated patience, “that is the problem. I was charged for the wrong show, and I’d like to have it switched with tonight’s concert. Please.” 

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale could feel the creeping anxiety he got whenever he had to deal with an angry customer. He did not want to have to call the manager about this, and he’d much rather if Crowley did not get that universal tone of displeasure with things that were beyond his control. “I’m afraid this establishment does not authorise refunds, sir. You can try calling customer service if this is of great importance to you, but as of right now, I cannot switch your tickets.” Aziraphale tried to look apologetic, even though he was met with a terrible scowl, teeth bared in a frightening line. “I can, however, sell you a ticket for tonight’s concert, we’re still not sold out.” 

Crowley growled (growled!) but made no further complaint. He nodded and waited patiently while Aziraphale charged and printed a new ticket for him. “Can I leave the Queen ticket here with you, then? I’m definitely not gonna go, and I know for a fact that none of my friends will want it.” 

Aziraphale knew the correct answer. The correct answer was: no, the music venue cannot take back tickets that have been purchased, nor can they resell them. The right thing was to tell Crowley that he’d probably have some luck if he just advertised; surely there was someone out there who would take a Queen tribute ticket off him, and perhaps even pay close to full price for it. 

But Aziraphale had already been a tight-arse rule-follower once to Crowley in one evening, and he kind of wished he could do something that would make the man grateful instead of aggressively annoyed. So he smiled and said, “Of course, it would be my pleasure.” No one had to know. Maybe he could even brighten someone’s day by giving it away. 

He took the ticket and was surprised when Crowley thanked him before walking away. Aziraphale watched him sidle over to the exit and heave the door open, only to be foiled by the fact that the door was locked on the outside. Crowley glanced around quickly, presumably to assure that no one had witnessed his blunder, and swung open the door on the right. He disappeared into the venue in a flash of black and red, by which time Aziraphale finally remembered that the transaction was over, and he could go back to reading. 

First, however, he decided to look through Crowley’s order history, since it was already open on his screen. Usually Aziraphale didn’t find himself particularly charmed by self-righteous customers who insisted that they’d purchased a ticket that they clearly hadn’t. But something about the interaction with Crowley didn’t get under skin like interactions with other patrons did. Aziraphale almost believed that Crowley was right about the ticket mix-up, and he felt a peculiar urge to prove that the venue had charged him for the wrong ticket. Concert tickets were expensive, after all. 

It appeared that Crowley had not attended many concerts at Harmonies From Heaven, unless of course he always paid in cash or received complimentary tickets. The peculiar thing was that about every year, for the past five years, there was an order for the same Queen tribute band that was playing next month. When Aziraphale clicked on the orders to see the details, he found that not a single one of those tickets had been scanned, meaning that Crowley certainly hadn’t attended the concerts. 

How strange, thought Aziraphale. Why on earth would he keep on purchasing these tickets if he wasn’t going to go to the concert? That was £ 15 per ticket, which seemed like a waste. Maybe Crowley just wanted to support the venue.

There was nothing else to be found in the computer system except for the man’s full name and contact information. Strangely, there was no middle name, it still just had the letter J. His email address, devilsadvocate@musicreviews.com, was a little foreboding. 

Aziraphale closed out of the customer look-up window and went back to whiling away the hours until the manager sent word that he could close up the box office. Whenever someone exited the building, he looked up, but Crowley must have stayed until the bitter end of the concert because Aziraphale did not see him for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this first short chapter! I cannot promise regular updates since writing happens in very chaotic little bursts these days, but I'm looking forward to writing the rest of this and I hope you enjoy reading it nonetheless!
> 
> In the meantime, find me on tumblr [@georginabulsara](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/) or [@georginawriting](https://georginawriting.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellloooo, I'm back! I posted my first chapter then had an existential crisis during which I only wrote angsty journal entries - but now I'm ready to delve back into fic ;)
> 
> Thanks to @nemnemz for beta'ing this chapter! All remaining errors are my own

_Wednesday evening at Harmonies From Heaven and it seems that the members of Hiss Achilles haven’t anticipated the energy Londoners are willing to bring to their live show. They open the set with the highest-intensity track from their new album, which is met with a subdued whoop from the few devoted fans who have arrived early. [something about how their guitarist was singing off-key, but say it in a way that doesn’t make you sound like a total dickwad]_

Crowley palmed his eye sockets in frustration and fatigue. Although well-practiced in scraping together a review to meet the publication deadline, he found it to be an excruciating experience every single time. The words were floating around in his head, but the minute he sat down to funnel them into a document, the words dissipated, his mind held captive by the chaotic rhythm of all the songs that were simultaneously stuck in his head.

He let out an almost animal growl, switched tabs, and put on a new album he was supposed to be reviewing for the next issue of _Devil’s Advocate._ Procrastinating on one assignment by working on another slightly less pressing assignment usually helped him get a move on.

Fingers poised above the taunting keys of his laptop and prepared to type the word “unforgivable” as a descriptor for a song he didn’t particularly like, Crowley was distracted by a knock at his open office door. Beez, resident photographer and insulter of everything Crowley did, interrupted his already shaky train of thought.

“You free on the 5th? There’s word that that Queen tribute band has a new vocalist who could be the next big thing on the scene. They’re even playing some originals apparently, we should turn up, be the first to report. I’ll do the photos, you write a snappy review.”

“What, is it the next Freddie Mercury or something? Do they have five-octave range and unparalleled song-writing talents? No? Then I’m not interested.” With a confident squirm of his torso, Crowley swivelled his chair back to face his screen. 

“That’s not exactly the attitude a successful music critic should have, now is it?” Beez’s watery-green eyes bore into the side of Crowley’s head. “What if this band becomes the next indie sensation and you’ve missed out on the honour of being one of the first people to single them out as worth listening to?” Beez clicked their tongue against their teeth disapprovingly. “You’d be making a huge mistake, Tony.” 

“ ** _Don’t_** call me Tony,” Crowley growled, knowing full well that nothing he said would ever stop Beez from weaponizing the cursed nickname against him whenever they felt like riling him up.

“Whatever, just make sure you get the tickets.”

Beez trotted away self-righteously before Crowley could come up with a good comeback, so he channelled that negative creative energy towards finding the perfect word to describe how the new album _really_ made him feel: thwarted in his belief that good music was still being produced in this day and age.

He hunched over the keyboard as he diligently churned out the appropriate word count of drivel needed to fill his allotted column, cursing under his breath every time the shitty Wi-Fi connection wavered in the middle of a sentence. Curse whatever ungodly entity invented cloud-based editing.

Not until later did he remember that he had stupidly left his—alleged—Queen tribute ticket with the new, hoity-toity box office clerk at the venue. Crowley knew for a fact that that “no refunds” policy was bullshit—there were countless times when he’d been wrongfully charged for concerts before, and every time he’d managed to intimidate the clerk into giving him his money back.

But that was beside the point now, because, like it or not, he was going to that Queen concert. And he was going to breathe fire if he had to pay _again_ for a ticket he did not want in the first place, no matter the damage it might do to that cherubic man’s perfectly laundered waistcoat.

* * *

With an unnecessary flourish of the credit card as he swiped it through the card reader, Aziraphale sold off the last ticket to _Queen Vision: The Ultimate Queen Tribute_. This pleased him a great deal because it meant that for the rest of the evening, he got to pronounce the magic words: “I’m sorry, we’re all sold out.” Those few words considerably shortened all interactions with patrons, even if the interaction, however short, wouldn’t be necessary at all if they could read the sign that clearly stated SOLD OUT – FOR REAL on all the doors of the venue.

Aziraphale clambered off his repurposed bar stool to tape up the signs at what he deemed to be the average eye level. Now his only duties were checking IDs to hand out will call and comp tickets, and if those went fast enough, he’d be comfortably settled back in his flat by the time the band introduced themselves onstage.

There was of course one thing that was nagging at his conscience as he had to turn the first unlucky would-be concertgoer away—in the crowded drawer where the staff kept all manner of miscellaneous items, there sat one lonely ticket that would go unused.

Aziraphale remembered the particular instance of him putting it there very well—one of his shifts last month, he’d taken it from the devilishly attractive man who apparently had a problem with being charged for concerts he had no intention of attending.

Every shift that Aziraphale had worked since that night, he’d taken a moment to search Crowley’s name in the system, just to keep tabs on his account. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do if he _did_ find a charge there, especially if it was for a Queen tribute, but so far he’d been spared the decision. Anthony J. Crowley hadn’t made any purchases through Harmonies From Heaven for the last three weeks.

He was scrolling through Crowley’s order history for the umpteenth time when he was interrupted by a tentative tap at the window. He hastily tabbed back to the ticketing interface and slid the window open to greet a man with a kind face accompanied by an eager-eyed boy. The boy, no older than twelve, was wearing a white vest despite the wind chill. He had some sort of black arm band with spiky jewels clasped around his bicep, and he’d drawn a thick moustache beneath his nose.

“I’m here to pick up will call tickets,” said the man, sliding his ID under the window.

Aziraphale took it with a smile, checked the surname, then went shuffling through his stack of tickets to find the correct ones.

“There’s just one ticket here, is that correct?” called Aziraphale when he’d found the name. He took it out of the pile and discarded the name placeholder, carefully returning the rest of the tickets to their spot in the register.

“Yes, that’s right,” replied the man, Mr Wadia. “But I’d like to buy one more for my nephew.” The boy quivered with excitement at his side, practically pumping his fists in the air. Mr Wadia smiled at him.

Aziraphale suspected that he would struggle to turn down these customers. Usually he found that turning patrons away because they were too cocky to have reserved tickets in advance was incredibly easy. Especially when they were rude and acted as if they were entitled to a ticket for any number of reasons they felt important to impart to him – “I travelled all the way from Cardiff for this concert;” “My nan wanted me to record the show so she could hear it from her hospital bed;” “I know the lead singer and he promised me a duet onstage if I came;” etc. Aziraphale rarely felt convinced.

But this was not one of those cases. Aziraphale could already tell that whatever excuse they had for not getting a ticket on time, it would probably be sincere and pull at his heartstrings. He had a soft spot for adults who looked out for kids, gave them experiences they would cherish the rest of their life.

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid I’ve just sold the last ticket. I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said with a heavy heart. He watched as the expression on the boy’s face morphed from unadulterated glee, to crestfallen disbelief.

The boy’s uncle didn’t try to sweet talk Aziraphale into making any exceptions, and instead turned to apologise to his nephew. “I’m so sorry, Ariv. This is my fault, I promise next time I’ll buy tickets in advance.”

“But uncle, I have my costume on an’ everything!” pleaded the little boy, right in Aziraphale’s line of sight.

He caved. “Oh, are you dressed as Queen?” he asked through the window, which he hadn’t been able to close just yet.

The boy turned his large, pleading eyes on Aziraphale with a slight look of incredulity. “I’m Freddie Mercury,” he said with confidence, almost as if he were challenging Aziraphale to contradict him on the matter.

Aziraphale, who was not even sure during which decade the band Queen had been popular, decided to proceed as if he’d known that already. “Well, Ariv, or should I say, Freddie, you are in luck! Since you came prepared, I have a special ticket just for you.” Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s discarded ticket and brandished it triumphantly in front of the boy.

Ariv jumped for joy and his uncle looked at Aziraphale as if he’d announced that Freddie Mercury himself would be making a guest appearance from beyond the grave. “How much do I owe you?” he said, fishing into his wallet.

“Oh, I can’t take any money for it,” Aziraphale explained, secretly thrilled that he was able to do this and that it wasn’t _technically_ against any rules. “This is actually a discarded ticket that’s already been paid for, so it would be unethical to charge you for it. Please, _do_ enjoy the show.”

“Thank you so much, he hasn’t stopped talking about Queen for weeks,” said the grateful man, already being pulled away by his nephew.

* * *

Nothing could dampen Aziraphale’s mood, as far as he was concerned. For a work night, he was in incredibly high spirits. On the rare occasions that he felt he could actually help someone who didn’t feel entitled to whatever they wanted, he actually enjoyed being in the box office. 

His buoyant mood faltered when an uncoordinated combination of limbs made a beeline for his window—Crowley. A dark smudge of spiky hair popped out from behind his elbow, a tiny person with an enormous camera device slung around their neck.

Ignoring the large, bolded sign right in front of his eyes, Crowley spoke into the window opening. “Could I redeem my ticket for this thing, please. And uh, get one more for this one,” he said, jabbing a thumb at the scowl he had for company.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, making uncomfortable eye contact with Crowley’s friend, whose eyes were darting blatantly between him and the massive sold-out sign, as if they were curious to see what exactly he’d do.

Aziraphale started to sweat. Giving away that ticket had been a bad idea. He should’ve followed protocol from the very beginning and not even taken Crowley’s ticket from him in the first place. 

But how was he supposed to know that Crowley would be back! He’d explicitly said that he wasn’t interested, and that little boy would clearly enjoy the concert much more than Crowley would. Crowley clearly wasn’t a Queen fan, there was nothing regal about him—except maybe his assumption that Aziraphale knew who he was and would do his bidding. Aziraphale started to wonder if the whole ‘I was charged for the wrong concert, can I get a refund’ was just a ploy to get into two concerts for the price of one. How silly of him—Gabriel always told him to look out for frauds, and he’d gone and got tricked, _again_. 

“I -” Aziraphale’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two would-be patrons while he decided what to do. “I – frankly – well, it was no longer your ticket, sir, and so I… it was given to someone else.” The man didn’t look all that disappointed, and made no move to rebut. “And I’m afraid that the concert is now sold out,” Aziraphale continued, tapping the sign.

Crowley cricked his head sideways and downwards, with a clear I-told-you-so look towards his companion. Aziraphale wondered, bewildered, what the relationship between these two people could possibly be. Siblings? Partners? Colleagues?

The spiky-haired companion opened their mouth. “Yeahhh, we’re with Devil’zz Advocate, there should be some comp tickets for us? Gabriel should’ve put us on the guest list.”

Ah. A classic—' _I was told I was on the guest list’_. Thankfully, this wasn’t something Aziraphale had to deal with. He could check the guest list, and if they weren’t on it, he’d call up the manager and let them deal with it.

“Silly me,” he said, tabbing over to the excel spreadsheet where the names for guest tickets were kept. “I’ll just need to see some ID.”

A card that was so greasy, Aziraphale felt sure he was going to leave grease prints on the keyboard after touching it, slid through the window. With some difficulty, he made out the name Beez (first name apparently ‘Prince’) and typed it into the search bar using only his pinkies.

As he suspected, there was no match. He tried ‘Prince’ just to be sure, and then searched ‘Crowley’ and got the same _0 results_. He returned the card politely. “I’m afraid you’re not on our list. If you’d be so kind to wait a moment while I contact the manager.”

“Already got ‘im,” said Beez, wiggling their phone.

In the amount of time it took Aziraphale to say, “Oh,” Gabriel, who wasn’t even a manager but a promoter, had manifested himself into the box office.

“Beez,” he bellowed. “What can I do for ya?”

“Gabriel,” Beez nodded curtly, “We’re trying to see what all the hype is about with this new singer.”

“Anytime, anytime,” said Gabriel, nudging Aziraphale to hand over the tickets. “And is that AJ Crowley with you?” added Gabriel incredulously. He snickered in response to Crowley’s grim nod. “Hope you enjoy the show. Heard great things.”

Gabriel clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder and left him to fumble with the tickets and Beez’s grimy ID card. Aziraphale passed them all through the window slot as hastily as he could, only to let go prematurely when his hand brushed Crowley’s knuckles. The tickets fluttered to the ground, followed swiftly by Crowley’s entire body.

“My apologies!” cried Aziraphale. Once Crowley had straightened back up and shot him a long-suffering look, Aziraphale added on one more maxim of customer service for good measure. “Enjoy the concert!"

He had the distinct feeling that neither of them would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so yes it was very painful to write someone not knowing who freddie mercury is, and also hard to believe, but i'm maintaining the "aziraphale knows nothing of music written less than 100 years ago" vibe despite it being a human au
> 
> also, despite what you might guess from my username, queen is not the _only_ band i listen to. my musical taste is actually all over the place, but i am like crowley in this AU in that i'm not really interested in hearing covers of queen songs, hence his reticence to go to a tribute concert. it's fun to play with the relationship crowley has to queen...
> 
> feel free to speculate in the comments! and thank you to everyone who read and commented on the first chapter <3 you're the best


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [nemnemz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemnemz) for beta-reading and making this much better!
> 
> This chapter uses the texting workskin, it should work with the skin turned on or off, but please let me know if there's something wonky going on and you can't read it!

The morning after the Queen tribute concert, Crowley slouched in the queue at the corner café. He pulled out his phone and opened up his Notes app:  
_how to begin… there is something so particular about good music, but also indescribable. it can be easy to pinpoint why you don’t like music…singer is too peppy, bassline is weak, don’t like the melodies . but when music beams itslef into ur soul, it’s like…it’s ineffable, is waht it is . I could never describe , accurately or without hyperbloe, unnecessary metaphors, what makes me love the music I love . and that is why I have nothing to say about queen vision_  
_type this up in a way that actually does say something tho_  
_because it was great_  
_made me feel like…love is real_  
_a glimmer of hope_  
_somehow it puts you in the right mood to be your best self?_  
_And all this at a live show_  
_With fuckin INSANE costumes – wld make Freddie m proud_  
_Also does that guy actually have 4 octave range? Cos it kindof sounded like it_

A text popped up from his neighbour Anathema, who routinely bugged him for insight on night life in London and what bands he recommended. It had become a kind of running joke between them—that they fundamentally disagreed on what consisted of a good concert, but that Crowley would throw a band name at her, Anathema would go listen to it, and then come back with a detailed account of all the creative decisions she didn’t agree with. It drove Crowley mad at first, but at this point in their relationship it was more of a fun game. Besides, her turns of phrase sometimes helped Crowley out when he was having difficulty writing a review.

**A:** can you feed newt this wknd? Got a yoga retreat to go to  
  
**C:** as long as u promise he wont’ bite my finger this time – I still have a scar  
  
**A:** newt would never, you must have provoked him  
  
**A:** Any plans besides lying flat on the floor in mountain pose while you listen to horrible music? Speaking of, any recs for a long train ride?  
  
**C:** ok you won’t believe tho – I actually saw a band that wasn’t horrible the other night, in soho  
  
**C:** And don’t laugh at me for this  
  
**C:** But they are a queen tribute band  
  
**C:** BUT that’s not all they do  
  
**C:** The new vocalist has an album of original demos on soundcloud (if u can believe it, I couldn’t) and it’s actually …………….Good  
  
**A:** is that … excitement that I detect? a spark of zest? A beam of sunshine in your life? You LIKE something??  
  
**C:** shutup I don’t want to hear it  
  
**C:** I’ll send u the link  
  


He clicked his tongue at Anathema’s cheek, but bombarded her with song recommendations all the same as he inched slowly towards the till.

When he’d finally put in his order (just a flat white, why did he have to stand in line for as long as everyone else getting drinks with the whole kitchen sink in?), he stood off to the side to wait. A soft buzz announced the arrival of an email in Crowley’s inbox, which had been mercifully quiet that morning thus far.

\---

 **To:** devilsadvocate@musicreviews.com  
**From:** Harmonies From Heaven Box Office Team  
**Subject:** Thank you for your order!  
**Body:**

Dear Anthony J Crowley,

Thank you for your purchase of two tickets to QUEEN VISION: Hot Space, at 8pm on March 7th Item total: £ 59.50. Service fee: £ 5.50. Total Price: **£ 65.00.**

**All Sales Final. No Refunds**

If you have customer service questions, please contact the box office at boxoffice@celestialharmonies.com or +44 (0)20 6970 7707.

Your order will be available for pickup at the event with a photo ID and email confirmation. The person whose name is listed for Will Call must claim the order at the event.

Thank you,

The HFH Box Office Team  
You can’t have good music without _good music_

\---

“Bloody H- fff,” muttered Crowley under his breath. He was livid. This was the fourth, nay, FIFTH time he’d been randomly charged for Queen tribute tickets, but this was the first time they’d appeared in his inbox to personally attack him. He usually found that whatever tickets he had ordered were magically switched for Queen tickets—this time, he hadn’t even made a purchase at the venue recently.

In a quasi-demonic haze, he punched the numbers of the box office into his phone, wishing that he had split-screen capabilities so he didn’t have to keep swiping back to the email to get all the numbers right. He hit the call button just as his flat white for “Ernie” appeared over the counter (honestly, do people even listen?).

First ring – the line was busy. He didn’t leave a message after the beep. He rang again a few blocks later, nearly stepping into oncoming traffic before teetering back to safety. On the third ring, a deceptively sweet-toned voice answered, “Harmonies From Heaven, how may I be of assistance?”

“Yeah, hgnwpwll,” Crowley sputtered, calibrating himself to human conversation. “I’m calling ‘cause I just got an email about a ticket purchase that I never made, and quite frankly it’s the millionth time it’s happened and I’d very much appreciate a refund, if you’d be so kind.”

Sometimes, when Crowley got very frustrated, he started adding in filler words, approaching a wordiness he usually reserved for reviews of albums he was completely indifferent to and could think of nothing to say about either way. He hoped it made him sound like someone who confidently and politely communicated his desires, and not like someone who kept receiving white chocolate mochaccinos when he’d ordered a flat white.

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s an issue that has to be taken up directly at the box office,” the saccharine voice on the line trilled. “Although generally we have a no refund policy so it’ll depend on the mood of whoever’s working that night. If you can prove you didn’t purchase the ticket, they might be able to authorise a partial refund, but you have to do it in person and the office won’t be open to the public until 7pm on the night of a show. Thank you for calling, have a nice day!”

Before he had the chance to acknowledge how utterly unhelpful that information was to him, the call was ended.

Crowley rounded the corner and ducked into his office building, taking the stairs two at a time. What happened to ‘the customer is always right?!?!’ Did they even know that he was press?

_Freddie Mercury’s ghost is fucking with me, isn’t he?_

Nah—it was probably just a regular cock-up with one of the employees, or maybe they thought it was a fun little joke.

He slumped into his office chair and took a gulp of coffee, remembering too late that it was actually an abominable mixture of melted white chocolate and milk.

* * *

Aziraphale had reached his word quota for the day, and still had practically a whole free afternoon ahead of him before he had to leave for his shift at the box office. He could, of course, push himself to write more than his daily goal, but that was a little extreme. Instead he re-enabled internet on his laptop and typed “Anthony J Crowley” into Google before he had time to reconsider.

So, it turned out that Crowley was also a writer—more specifically, a music journalist for the publication _Devil’s Advocate_. The search results turned up all manner of reviews for bands that weren’t even anywhere near Aziraphale’s radar. What _did_ catch his attention, however, was that nearly every headline penned by Crowley included some clever pun that also served to indicate the nothing-to-write-home-about nature of the music being reviewed: _The Velocipedes’ new album veloci_ -needs _to reconsider_ _the use of synths_ ; _Garden of Eden, more like Garden of Even More Songs About Ejaculation_ ; etc.

Aziraphale’s curiosity got the better of him and he clicked on one article that sounded particularly malicious, reading it as if it were the celebrity gossip column—half disbelieving, half utterly fascinated.

How was it possible that Crowley still had his job? Surely it looked bad for the magazine to only publish negative reviews—how was anyone to get any recommendations if the whole spread was on what should be avoided? Or maybe that was the point of publication, and they only published sharp-witted critiques.

Aziraphale spared a thought for all the bands that had yet to establish themselves—hearing that someone from _Devil’s Advocate_ was coming to their show must feel like a death sentence. Crowley reaped the souls or poor, innocent creatives who were just trying to make it in this cruel world, doing what they loved. He’d be absolutely gutted if someone wrote about his life’s work in that way.

At the same time, he couldn’t deny that Crowley had a flair for the written word, wielding phrases that were as ingenious as they were devastatingly blunt. And he was always sure to mention at least one positive thing about the group, even if it was as minor as the level of enjoyment the members seemed to take in performing.

The afternoon trickled by, and before Aziraphale knew it, it was time for him to go into work and he still hadn’t finished reading all the reviews Crowley had written. He hastily rushed out the door, with just enough time to pick up supper on the way.

* * *

Hastur and the Maggots (Aziraphale didn’t even want to think about what kind of onstage aesthetic this band might have) were on the bill for tonight’s show. He did recognise the name of the group, however, which was very rare given his aversion to modern music. He remembered the name only because there had been a review of their gig by Crowley that was particularly harrowing to read—Azriaphale was inclined to believe that in this case, Crowley may have been well within his right to make such harsh criticisms.

(Aziraphale could even recall portions of the article— _introduce themselves onstage as the leaders of the ‘legless larva scene’, whatever that means – heavy reliance on special effects that only subtract from any real musical talent they might have – fog machine was clearly spiked with some sort of sulphurous substance, coating the crowd in a foul scent against their will – the music is raw and toothy – the lead singer has incorporated microphone feedback into several songs it seems; at first it appears to just be faulty sound tech, but listen to their EP and the same idiosyncrasies will assault your ears…_ )

Aziraphale was surprised, then, when he found a long queue of people already waiting at the box office window when he arrived for his shift. He set aside the container of soup he’d been looking forward to and opened up the box office window instead.

* * *

Crowley sped-walked down Beak Street as fast as he could, annoyed that on the one night he didn’t plan on going to any shows, he was still heading in the direction of one of his least favourite venues. It was early enough before the show that the box office should be open, but the place shouldn’t be mobbed with ticketholders yet. In no time, he’d be back in his flat, curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, a fully-charged laptop, and Newt the newt for company.

He rounded the corner, secretly hoping that the man from before would be the person on duty. Not because he thought the man would be helpful to him—if he was working, he’d likely insist on calling a manager like he had the last time Crowley had been there with Beez. And the first time Crowley had encountered him at the box office, he’d seemed particularly stringent on the “no refunds” policy.

But he would be remiss not to acknowledge that something about the man caught his attention like nothing else did. The way he pronounced his polite customer service phrases so exactly, and flicked through that stack of tickets with such care and concentration. Crowley had been watching him with a scowl, but inside his head, his brain had been short circuiting at the sight of the man’s tongue held between his teeth as he’d searched for their names on the guest list. Crowley could tell that he’d been slightly intimidated by Beez, who was frequently a condescending prick. He hoped that he could make up for it tonight, and he prepared himself to be exceedingly patient and understanding about his ticket problem, as annoyed as he was by it.

Those hopes were slightly dashed when he reached the corner and saw that the queue for the box office wound all the way down the street. The crowd was loud and had a distinct smell about them, one that made Crowley want to get as far away as possible. For a split second he considered turning around and bolting back to his comfortable evening alone, but then he caught a glimpse of floofy white-blond hair through the gaps between concertgoers, and thought _what the hell, I’m already here._

* * *

Aziraphale was having a time of it in the box office. His ticket printer had run out of stock, and Michael, who was supposed to be working the shift with him, had not showed up yet. He grappled with restocking the printer while simultaneously trying to keep the peace with the increasingly impatient crowd.

After finally wrestling the printer into submission, he was able to give his whole attention to the patrons, his mind distracted from any thoughts he might have had about Crowley. It was a great surprise, then, when he found himself face to face with the man a few minutes later.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale blurted out, before amending to, “Er, hello, I mean.”

Crowley nodded at him, quirking his eyebrows a bit at the strange greeting. “Yeah, hello. I’m not actually here to pick up tickets, erm, I’ve got another…ticket problem. To sort out. They told me to come here.”

“No, I would be surprised if you were here for the show.” Aziraphale shook his head, hoping that would clear the stupid out. “I mean, yes, I can try to help, what seems to be the problem?”

Crowley looked at him again quizzically, but didn’t remark on his frankly horrible communication skills. “Well, it’s the same thing that keeps on happening, you know. I keep on getting charged for tickets I didn’t buy, although this time they aren’t even being substituted for tickets I did buy, they’ve gone completely rogue. Floating straight into my email when I didn’t ask for them.”

“Right, let me see,” Aziraphale said, tapping Crowley’s name into the search bar. “How did you enjoy the concert last night, by the way?” he asked while it loaded, immediately regretting it because he should know better by now to assume that Crowley enjoyed any concerts.

Crowley surprised him with his answer, “Oh, it was fantastic, actually. Thanks for getting us the tickets.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale marvelled, “delighted to assist.” He narrowed his eyes at the screen where Crowley’s order summary had popped up. “Yes, it looks like you’ve been charged 65 pounds for an upcoming concert by the same band.”

“Yeppp, that’s the one. I never bought those.”

“And you don’t want the tickets? Only you just told me the band was fantastic, and last time you said you didn’t want the tickets, you ended up using them anyway.”

“Yeah, er…” Crowley ran a gloved hand through his hair. “It’s more the principle of the thing. I’d rather buy the tickets myself, when I want them, y’know. Is there any way you could look into what’s going on? If there’s a glitch or something?”

“I’d be glad to. I can also refund the tickets and put you down on the guest list for that night, if you’d like. Since you’re with the press, you should be getting complimentary tickets anyway.”

Crowley’s face split into a toothy grin. “That’d be great. Thanks.” Aziraphale melted a little at the sincerity in his voice, completely oblivious to the increasingly impatient line of people behind Crowley.

As Aziraphale processed the refund, he clicked over to Crowley’s contact info. “I’m afraid we don’t have a mobile phone number listed for you,” he said. “Would you prefer to be notified by email, if I find anything about what’s going on with your account with us?”

“I prefer phone, actually, my work email’s a mess.” Crowley recited his number, and Aziraphale wrote it down carefully on a scrap of paper, to be sure he didn’t enter it wrong into the computer. He read it back to Crowley for confirmation, granting him a further smile from the man when he got it right.

Just as Aziraphale was sliding the window open to hand Crowley the proof of his refund, a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. A sound accompanied it, a sort of angry exclamation from a man in a very shabby overcoat who was quickly approaching Crowley. Crowley whipped around in a flash of red and black.

“Are ye that daft journalist, Anthony Crowley?”

There was no reply from Crowley, or none that Aziraphale could perceive from where he was frozen within the booth. He looked nervously at the doors where the security guards usually hovered and found no one there. Crowley glanced back at him with a nervous look, pressing his back against the window as the man moved closer and closer.

“I’m Sergeant Shadwell,” he said, one droplet of his spittle making it as far as the box office window. “And I don’t appreciate the way you write about my favourite band. Did ye know I’m tha leader of the _Witchfinders_ official fan club?”

“Errgstht, no,” Aziraphale heard Crowley sputter under his breath. He remembered another particularly harsh review for a band called the Witchfinders, and suddenly feared for Crowley’s safety. Aziraphale inched his way towards the entrance of the box office, a door in the corridor which from the outside didn’t look like a door at all. Crowley, in his attempt to shrink away from Sergeant Shadwell, now had his back pressed against the hidden door, looking quite defenceless.

Aziraphale should be phoning the security guards to alert them of a potentially hostile patron, and he would do that. But first he had to make sure Crowley was safe. He could still hear Shadwell raging outside, although his words got a little muddled—between his thick accent and his probable inebriation, the meaning was lost.

Aziraphale braced himself, pulled the door open by a fraction, and made a frantic grab out into the open until he had a hold on Crowley’s coat. A second later, a dishevelled Crowley was safely inside the corridor, Aziraphale had slammed the door shut, and the two of them were bathed in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! come say hi on tumblr in the meantime [@georginabulsara](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/), writing stuff over at [@georginawriting](https://georginawriting.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much [nemnemz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemnemz) for beta-reading! Remaining errors are my own.
> 
> There's a good bit of texting in this chapter. If it's hard to read on your device, you might want to click 'Hide Creator's Style' so it displays like normal text. Let me know if there are any errors with it, I'm new to work skins!

The little corridor outside the door to the box office was pitch black, although a line of dim light around the office door provided enough to see the soft contours of the kind man’s face. Crowley blinked multiple times, unsure of exactly what had just happened, and wondering why his coat felt more constrictive than normal. He realised why when the man’s manicured hand dropped back to his side, releasing Crowley from his grip. 

Distantly, as if it were a beating heart of an animal whose stomach they were trapped in, Crowley could feel the pulsing bass of the opening band. He was glad he wasn’t obligated to go into the venue—his ears were still ringing from the last concert—although it remained to be seen how he would snake his way out of the building.

“Er, sorry about that,” said his rescuer, smoothing restless hands nervously over his waistcoat. “It just looked like you could use some help, and there wasn’t enough time to call security.”

Crowley tried to say something in return, but it seemed that he had yet to recover from his narrow escape. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat and part of him wanted to collapse forward into the surprisingly sturdy arms of the ticket agent.

“I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

“Ngh…no,” Crowley breathed. “If anything, you’ve prevented an injury…”

“Good.” The man’s smile was brief but seemed to momentarily light the dim corridor. “I’ve got to get back to work, I’m afraid,” he continued, with a frantic gesture to the muffled voices of the impatient dozens directly outside. “I would call security, but that might just attract more attention. I can give you directions on how to get out of here through the rear exit, which goes into a back alley.”

“Nnyeah, that’d be great,” Crowley stuttered.

In a polite but genuine customer service voice, he thoroughly explained the route Crowley would have to take to safely make it to the other side of the building and exit onto Warwick Street. When he was done, he tipped his button nose up at Crowley in the most concerned way. “So, I will call you with news about your account here with us? If I find anything untoward going on?”

Crowley wondered how confident this man was in his sleuthing skills—was he just saying that, or did he really think he’d get to the bottom of whatever was going on?  
“Text,” Crowley managed to spit out as he stepped towards the big empty space where the ticket angel claimed he would find a curtain leading to a stairwell.

“Pardon?” The light from the office illuminated his perfectly rounded body and feathery hair as he cracked the door open, backlighting him in a full-body halo.

“Better text—I don’t pick up for unknown numbers.”

“Ah, of course, dear. Text it is.” Crowley lost himself in the ticket man’s beatific smile, thinking he looked rather ethereal. Hopefully he knew how to send a text message. “I’m Aziraphale, by the way.”

Crowley’s eyes widened at the mouthful of a name. “You’ll have to spell that for me in the text, uhh, so I don’t misspell it in my contacts.”

“It’s really not that easy to misspell, but of course I’ll write it out for you.” Another ear-to-ear smile accompanied his response. 

Crowley turned before he could enter any further into the hypnotic state brought about by Aziraphale’s aura and groped the wall until he found the entrance to a steep staircase. Halfway down it, he remembered that he was equipped with a smartphone and activated its torch feature to avoid tumbling to his death. Everything, walls, ceiling, stairs, were completely black, but they also seemed to vibrate to the touch.

He turned left at the foot of the stairs, thankfully the only direction he could turn in. Another dark corridor, but this one at least had small faux-flames lit on either side. At eye level, someone had taped up a poster that read DON’T LICK THE WALLS in stylized lettering. Crowley suspected it was the name of some music festival he’d rather die than attend, or perhaps the name of an obscure band. 

It felt as if he were sinking deeper and deeper into the bowels of the venue, but the rhythmic thumping of the concert was becoming more distant. Crowley took that to be a sign that Aziraphale’s directions hadn’t been lost on him.

Despite the cave-like atmosphere, the air in the corridors was quite muggy, verging on sauna temperatures. Crowley rejoiced when he finally saw the neon red EXIT sign Aziraphale had told him to look for at the top of a different, narrower staircase. He held his breath as he reached for the bar of the door, knowing that if it was locked, he was pretty much screwed. There was no way he’d remember the serpentine path he’d taken, and unfortunately Aziraphale had only taken his number and not shared his own. Crowley didn’t realistically expect to hear from him again, but he hoped something would come up that would prompt a text, even if it wasn’t about his error tickets.

The heavy door swung open once he leaned all his weight into it with his shoulder—the cold air hit him with an invigorating gust, and he exhaled a breath that was visible in the cold air of the alley.

Crowley hurried home to find Newt the newt peacefully resting, and he went to bed in the hope that he could achieve that same blissful state of deep sleep. When his first alarm ruthlessly woke him the next morning, there was a text that had arrived several hours earlier.

**A:** Found the problem with your tickets! Contact me ASAP as possible for further intel!  
  
**A:** (this is Aziraphale by the way)  
  


* * *

Aziraphale barely made it through the shift for the _Hastur and the Maggots_ show. For one thing, the fans were rabid and a little bit rude. He was also significantly shaken from his interaction with Crowley, surely the longest single interaction he’d ever had with a patron. And the farthest he’d ever gone to help them—not only take his personal information, but pull him out of harm’s way, as if security were part of his job!

The first half of the shift, Aziraphale spent blushing every time he thought about it, then pushing the memory of Crowley’s firm yet spindly arms to the back of his mind. He only forgot to give a patron their credit card back once, and the pile of will call tickets fell on the floor twice but they were easily recovered because Aziraphale had had the good sense to bind them with an elastic at the beginning of the shift.

Once the headliner actually went onstage and most of the patrons were already inside, Aziraphale could conceivably sit back and read his book. Instead, he very carefully took the piece of paper where he had written down Crowley’s number, and entered it under a new contact in his phone. He didn’t use his phone very much, mainly just as a means to facilitate communication with potential publishers if the need ever arose and he happened to be out of his flat. Very few people had his number outside of some professional capacity. He supposed Crowley’s number technically fell under “professional use only” as well.

Then he logged onto the administrative portal of the ticketing website and started an intense dive into Crowley’s customer history. Every concert he’d been charged for, Aziraphale clicked on the order and read any of the details provided—date, quantity, delivery method, barcode, etc. 

It was the most he’d ever made use of the computer system in his entire life. At first, he wasn’t sure he was interpreting the information correctly. There was a field labelled “purchase method,” which Aziraphale had never paid much attention to before. When Gabriel had trained him during his very first shift, he’d made it seem like anything more than swiping credit cards and printing tickets was beyond Aziraphale’s job description.

With a few keystrokes, Aziraphale found that Crowley’s purchase summary did not look quite like that of a random patron he pulled up for comparison. Instead of “online,” “by phone,” or “box office,” all of Crowley’s purchases were listed under the method: “entered by User ArchGab.”

Aziraphale’s train of thought was interrupted by the swing of the venue doors as throngs of people exited for a quick fag during the interval. His phone showed a message from twenty minutes ago that he was all clear to close up for the night. He hurriedly completed the income summary reports, counted the bank, exported the appropriate PDFs and attached them to the EOD email. Gathering his belongings in a rush, he very nearly closed the padlock on the office door without making certain he had the key in hand. He’d already made that mistake before, and didn’t wish to repeat the consequences.

Finally, after rushing down to the cellar where the safe was kept and depositing the money, Aziraphale bustled out onto the street. Once he was safely in the warmth of his flat, he thawed his hands on a fresh cup of tea and pulled out his mobile phone. He fired off a text to Crowley’s number before even checking the time—it was nearly two in the morning.

“Ffff….” Aziraphale breathed. Hopefully Crowley was already asleep and would see the text in the morning without looking at what time it was sent. He couldn’t help check his phone obsessively for the next hour, but eventually his eyes were too groggy to decipher words on the page of his book, and he fell into a light sleep until a buzz on his phone startled him awake at 9:30.

**C:** you know that ASAP stands for ‘as soon as possible’ right?  
  
**A:** I apologise, I did not mean to pressure you! This is quite soon enough  
  
**C:** no, i mean you essentially wrote ‘as soon as possible as possible’  
  
**C:** nevermind, its not important  
  
**C:** wha’t s going on with my ticketss ?  
  
**A:** I suppose that’s what I get for trying to implement textspeak into my mobile phone usage.  
  
**A:** Ah yes, your tickets. I did some digging in the system – it would appear that it is not a technical error.  
  
**C:** what sort of error is it then? human? I can’t think of many other explanationgs  
  
**A:** Well it would seem that it’s not an error at all. I think someone has been doing it on purpose. Especially after seeing that rude man’s behaviour last night, it begs the question how many other people might be harbouring particularly malicious feelings towards you.  
  
**C:** oh I get nonsense like that from ppl all the time, if they happen to recognise me from the advocate  
  
**C:** I’m notorious in the music review circles for pissing off die-hard fans of all sorts of bands  
  
**C:** It’s a point of pride, really  
  
**C:** But I still don’t see how one of them could be behind this .. unless my credit card has been hacked? do I need to report fraud??  
  
**A:** Well, I don’t think that’s quite it, but you’re close. I believe it was someone on our end—one of my colleagues, a manager to be precise. You don’t happen to know a Gabriel Archer, do you?  
  
**C:** not that I cn think of , I’d have to do a search thru my slew of hate mail  
  
**C:** But if he’s a sensitive bastard and has horrible taste in music, i could’ve pissed him off with any one of my many reviews  
  
**C:** What makes u think he’s behind it?  
  
**A:** Well, first of all, he’s my cousin, so I know him well enough and it doesn’t exactly surprise me as something he would do. But I also found evidence in the computer system that he was the one entering all of your purchases, which was a red flag because as a manager he doesn’t normally work in sales, so he only should’ve been entering purchases if you’d asked him directly.  
  
**C:** not bloody likely  
  
**C:** Well I’m lucky u were around or else I’d be eternally cursed by those queen tix . although i guess it was kind of like a blessing in disguise, as much as i HATE that phrase, because turns out the queen tribute band isn’t half bad  
  
**A:** Yes, I was wondering why it was the Queen tribute band in particular that Gabriel was charging you for – were you not fond of the original band?  
  
**C:** na I LOVED queen, i was about a decade too late to be part of the royal family (theh hard core fans who went to ever ocncert) and i only saw them live once but ima lifelong fan . I’m guessing the queen tribute tix were cos I’ve often compared bands to queen, but in a negative way, like bands today could never live up to what they did  
  
**C:** Im a bit of a bastard  
  
**A:** Well, we all have our musical preferences.  
  
**A:** I reimbursed the concert tickets, but should you want to attend after all, I can certainly put your name on the guest list!  
  
**C:** I knew there was a reason I talked to you  
  
**C:** Yes plz that would be lovely  
  
**C:** Thank u  
  
**A:** Anytime!  
  


* * *

**C:** you workin tonite?  
  
**A:** Yes, I am.  
  
**C:** I suppose I’ll see u at will call then  
  
**A:** Will you be bringing a plus one? I only ask because it looks like we’ve definitely sold out, and we might be releasing some of the complimentary tickets to paying guests. Of course I’ll make sure that you retain your ticket, but I’m supposed to be trimming down the guest list right now, and I’ll need to add the name of your plus one if you want to use the ticket or else it will be released!  
  
**A:** (Sorry for such a long message)  
  
**C:** do you get free admission after your shift?  
  
**A:** Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question!  
  
**C:** o well I was wondering if u wld be my plus one  
  
**C:** But if you get free entry than u can release the ticket anywy!  
  


Aziraphale put down his phone and stared into space for approximately 67 seconds. Crowley wanted him to be his plus-one? Surely there was a misunderstanding.

**A:** You want to attend the concert with me?  
  
**C:** yeah! … unless youd rather not  
  
**C:** I mean I know it’s not for everyone but ive actually writtena GLOWING review of this band  
  
**C:** Sorry my pphen autocorrects random words ot all caps sometimes  
  
**A:** I wouldn’t be able to go inside the venue until the latter portion of the concert, you’d be in there for a while by yourself.  
  
**C:** yeah that’s fine! Or we could go for a drink or something instead when u get off your shift  
  
**A:** I’d love to see the band. Judge with my own ears, as it were.  
  


A moment passed where there was no answer, not even the wiggly little ellipsis indicating the formulation of a response. Aziraphale reread his message, looking for any sign of social faux pas, before a new message appeared.

**C:** great! See you at the box offc then?  
  
**A:** I’ll put your ticket aside now 🙂  
  


* * *

Crowley stared dumbfounded at Aziraphale’s choice of emoji, the vaguely threatening I-might-be-plotting-your-murder smiley. It only partially distracted him from the fact that he and Aziraphale were very possibly going on their _first date_ tonight. He didn’t 100% trust his instincts on such matters, but Crowley was almost certain that they were on the same page regarding the concert tonight. Ever since the rather heroic encounter with Aziraphale outside the box office last time, they’d been exchanging texts that had become progressively less “employee going the extra mile to help a customer” and more “man expressing interest in a potentially romantic relationship.”

Crowley strode confidently to the box office of Harmonies From Heaven, for the first time not dreading the evening but being mildly terrified in a first-date-jitters sort of way. He had only to enjoy himself, enjoy the concert since he wouldn’t be reviewing it, and enjoy his company, who had agreed to join him. Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale in person since they’d begun texting, and come to think of it, he’d never actually seen him properly outside of the booth at all. He supposed he wouldn’t be able to see him very well inside the concert venue either, but at least they would be standing next to each other. And there was always the chance that they could get a drink together after the show.

There was no queue for the box office tonight, perhaps because there was another agent working alongside Aziraphale. From a distance, Crowley could see that they were chatting and having a quick bite to eat in between customers. Aziraphale brought a spoon to his lips, blowing lightly before putting it into his mouth. The other person in the booth could’ve had an astronaut helmet on their head and Crowley wouldn’t have noticed—Aziraphale eating soup was far too mesmerising.

Crowley didn’t realise he’d stopped walking until Aziraphale looked up and caught his gaze. He felt the last of his anxieties leave his body as Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to lure him to the box office window.

“Here’s your ticket!” Aziraphale had already slid the panel open and stuck his hand out into the biting air, waving the ticket around frenetically. 

“Didn’t I have to show some ID last time? What if I were an impersonator and you just gave away my ticket to some uncertified, intruder journalist?” 

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“And what if _I_ , the real me came up later, because I’m _rarely_ this punctual, and said, Hey Aziraphale, I’m so excited for this concert, can I have my ticket please? And you’d have to call the people in charge of identity fraud, and it’d become a national story because – someone impersonating Anthony Crowley, renowned music critic? That’d be front page news, no doubt…”

Crowley stopped talking (thankfully) when Aziraphale turned his head to say something to his co-worker. Crowley couldn’t hear, because the enormous pane of plexiglass was seemingly thick enough to block all sound unless spoken at shouting volume. Aziraphale looked down at his takeaway, slightly bashful, before returning his gaze to Crowley. Fortunately for everyone, Crowley’s brain had decided to spare him more terrible lines of dialogue. He returned to better conversational territory.

“What are you eating?”

“Ah!” Aziraphale’s shoulders wriggled and he picked up his bowl. “There’s a lovely soup place just round the corner from here, called Revolutionary Soup. They serve all sorts of soups and stews, as well as sandwiches and salads. I highly recommend it, my go-to order is the French onion soup with a gruyere-on-baguette sandwich on the side!”

Aziraphale looked thrilled to be able to share this information, and Crowley had to admit it made his nearly empty stomach grumble. “You’ll have to take me there sometime,” he said, rather presumptuously, but Aziraphale looked as though he’d relish the prospect no matter how poorly the rest of the evening went. He beamed at Crowley with a heavenly force that nearly knocked Crowley back into a man approaching the box office.

“I’ll see you inside the pit then?” he said, brandishing his ticket and starting to step out of the way.

“The pit? Oh, you mean the concert! Yes, of course! Enjoy the show, I hope I shan’t miss too much of it!”

And with that, Crowley tore himself away from the window and made his way for the doors, this time being sure to open the door clearly labelled ENTRANCE rather than EXIT. 

* * *

Aziraphale was glad to have Uriel working with him tonight. It meant that closing up the box office would be a much quicker job and that the overall number of people he had to interact with was halved. Unfortunately, it also meant that he had to endure Uriel’s nosy enquiries into the status of his relationship with a certain redhaired customer.

“ _He_ sounded pretty full of himself,” she said as she banged the side of the printer that always jammed.

“Oh, that’s just his sense of humour, you know. He’s actually quite shy and self-conscious.”

“You know him well, then? Well enough to not even ask for ID, anyway. You best be glad I can’t stand talking to Gabriel, or else I’d be telling him you’re not following policy.”

Aziraphale restrained a snort. “And I suppose I shouldn’t mention the fact that you’ve sold off unclaimed tickets and pocketed the change?”

Uriel hummed in conceit. “What the manager doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Besides, I did those people massive favours! They wouldn’t have got into the concert if I didn’t bend the rules a little bit.” 

“Fair enough.”

They continued the shift in silence, occasionally sharing snarky remarks about the less polite concertgoers they dealt with. When the green light for closing came, they completed the duties with the practised speed of employees who wanted to be off the clock as soon as possible. Uriel told Aziraphale about an upcoming Halloween party she was going to as she counted the bank, and Aziraphale was grateful for the distraction. He thought it rather odd that she was attending a Halloween party in March, but to each their own.

The headlining band had probably been onstage for a total of two or three songs, but Crowley had been inside the venue for at least an hour and a half. Part of him feared that Crowley might’ve gotten bored and left, even though it was silly to think so, knowing that he probably spent most of his evenings at concerts, and this was a band he actually liked. 

“Say hi to your boyfriend in the dark glasses,” Uriel said, wiggling her eyebrows. She laughed and turned towards the exit, leaving Aziraphale with the box of money to stow away in the safe. He took the back way down to the offices, which then had a door that led to the below-ground bar where people went if they didn’t care about being able to see the stage. The stairs leading to the ground level were most inconveniently placed where groups tended to congregate, spilling beer onto the floor that made your shoes sticky for the rest of the evening.

Aziraphale waded through, saying ‘pardon’ at least five times, although no one could hear him over the loud chatter backed by music. He trudged up the steps, the bass notes growing louder with every step, and emerged at the back of the concert hall. The band was in front of him at the opposite end, although he could hardly make them out. His main impression was lots of revolving lights and the occasional figure brandishing an instrument or a microphone.

The crowd in between Aziraphale and the stage was considerable and not very well lit. The beat panged in his stomach, punctuating a new fear that he may not even be able to find Crowley amid all these people, all jumping around and jostling each other. It would be silly to even try searching the crowd.

**A:** I’m finished with my shift. Are you still in the concert? If so, where? It is rather crowded in here.  
  
**C:** yeah im here kind of close to teh stage left side  
  
**C:** It’ll be better if I just come to you tho there are way too mny pelple n here and they kep httin my sides  
  
**C:** Where r u  
  
**A:** I’m at the very back of the auditorium, in the centre. Right by the entrance to the downstairs bar.  
  
**C:** b right there  
  


Aziraphale stood his ground by the stairs and waited, wondering how long it would take for Crowley to wriggle his way around so many people. The band started playing another song, one that Aziraphale actually happened to know by its sheer popularity. He hadn’t heard it for a while, but he found himself mouthing along to nearly all the words. The band had just got to the chorus, implicating the audience in the chants of _Find. Me. Somebody to LO-VE_ , when a tap on Aziraphale’s shoulder brought him back to his immediate surroundings.

Crowley smiled and wiggled his fingers at him, but did not attempt to say anything above the now collective echoes of _somebody (SOMEBODY) somebody (SOMEBODY) FIND ME (somebody to love)_. Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam at Crowley, who was singing along, shouting along. He joined in, raising his voice, knowing that he would probably be hoarse tomorrow if they played any other songs he was familiar with. The final drawn-out croon of _LoOooOOoooooOOOooOOove_ was immediately punctuated with cheers and whistles from the crowd. 

Crowley leaned into the small breadth of space close to Aziraphale’s ear where his voice could be heard above all the noise. “Can I tempt you to a drink?” he shouted. “I know a place that does music-themed cocktails and is way quieter.”

Despite the fact that Aziraphale could easily communicate his acceptance of the invitation by nodding, he leant in. Crowley stooped slightly so that his ear lined up with Aziraphale’s mouth. “That sounds lovely,” he bellowed.

Just then, the band started up the snappy beginning of ‘Killer Queen.’

“One more song?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised.

“One more song.” Aziraphale returned Crowley’s grin with the warmest smile he could muster, and they both start singing along.

_She keeps her Moey and Chandon_

_In a pretty cabinet_

_‘Let them eat cake’, she says…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like marie antoinette!!  
> the last bit of lyrics is just a nod to the part in the GO book when I knew I'd love it (I think it was towards the beginning) - I, like Crowley, often wondered who moët et chandon were 😂
> 
> I'd like to once again thank my betas antikate (first chapter) and nemnemz (other three chapters) for their help. And a thank you to everyone who has read along, commented, and/or left kudos. It's been lovely to read the comments and share this story with you, and it has really made me miss going to live concerts haha :'/
> 
> As you can probably tell, I'm a very slow writer. But I am still working on things for multiple fandoms, things that I'm going to try to hold back posting until they're complete. I'm around though, come say hi on tumblr at [georginabulsara](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/) or [georginawriting](https://georginawriting.tumblr.com/) !

**Author's Note:**

> You can also check out my other human AUs if you liked this one!   
> [Grad School AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543283/chapters/51356545)  
> [Community Theatre AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983457)


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